You run a grave risk, my boy," said the magician, "of being turned into a piece of bread, and toasted.
T. H. WhiteLife is such unutterable hell, solely because it is sometimes beautiful. If we could only be miserable all the time, if there could be no such things as love or beauty or faith or hope, if I could be absolutely certain that my love would never be returned: how much more simple life would be. One could plod through the Siberian salt mines of existence without being bothered about happiness.
T. H. WhiteWar is like a fire. One man may start it, but it will spread all over. It is not about any one thing in particular.
T. H. White